


I'm Still Dreaming

by sanerontheinside



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:07:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: Qui-Gon hadn’t dealt with fever dreams in many, many years. That was—probably not a very good sign.





	I'm Still Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jessebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessebee/gifts).



> *gently lures skyy back into the sun with prompt fill*

 

Exposure to all sorts of new and outlandish viruses was an occupational hazard for field-certified Jedi. Padawans suffered more for it, immune systems not yet experienced enough to deal with the onslaught of foreign challengers no matter how stringent Vokara’s vaccination schedule was. But sometimes even Masters fell victim to a new strain, and fell heavily.

Qui-Gon Jinn was a very reluctant victim. He was sure Vokara might even go so far as to call him petulant, but he didn’t exactly care, lying curled up on his side, struggling to breathe past the tickle in his throat and feeling terribly alone. This planet was nothing but wet and cold, and even a weary, starving Jedi could fall victim to an illness due to nothing more than exposure.

He was a very long way away from where his ship had crashed. He’d made it, finally, to a semi-abandoned hunter’s shed, with a fireplace and furs he could wrap himself up in. There were stores of rations, a cistern of purified rainwater off the side of the house, and a sad lack of tea—but at least it was a well-made shelter.

Qui-Gon tried to take a deep breath. His body decided that was too difficult a task for it at the moment and retaliated with a coughing fit.

This was going to be a long few days.  


* * *

  
He woke in the middle of the night, shivering so hard he could barely keep his teeth from chattering. He first thought that the room was oddly bright, the fireplace crackling merrily in front of him. Then he smelled tea, which was another impossibility. And then—oh, _then_ …

A gentle hand slipped around the back of his head, supporting him, mindful of his long hair. One hand beneath his shoulder helping him sit, propping him up against someone’s blessedly warm chest. Qui-Gon wanted to turn and wrap himself around that warmth, hold it tight until the shivers passed.

“Careful,” a lovely, familiar voice said, intimately soft. “It’s hot,” and Qui-Gon felt a mug pressed into his hands.

It was definitely tea.

That was also, definitely, the cultured voice of one Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Qui-Gon hadn’t dealt with fever dreams in many, many years. That was—probably not a very good sign. But his antipyretics were a loss—his entire med kit, in fact, had failed to escape the wreckage. Frankly, Qui-Gon had been lucky to get away with several deep-tissue bruises, a concussion, and a stiff ankle, but otherwise no broken bones.

Better a pleasant hallucination to keep him company, though, than having to see this through alone. So he let his imaginary Obi-Wan coax him through most of a cup of tea and a bit of reconstituted stew Qui-Gon remembered seeing in the stores, but certainly didn’t remember making.

“Are you warm enough?” his hallucination asked him, wrapping another fur around his shoulders.

Qui-Gon, warmed through by tea and stew and the—imagined—presence of his former Padawan, had just enough in him to nod. His shivering had eased, his headache had faded into the background. He felt the figure behind him shift, strong arms easing him back into his nest of furs. For a moment, Qui-Gon felt bereft of the warmth that had braced him, the heat against his back. Suddenly he didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to give in—didn’t want to wake up all alone.

“Easy now, I’m not going anywhere,” the illusion said, and Qui-Gon finally got his first glimpse of his copper-haired Knight. Obi-Wan had let his hair grow out to shoulder-length, and he looked like—either like he needed a razor, or perhaps like he needed to grow out the beard.

Qui-Gon smiled. It took some effort to disentangle his hand from the furs and stroke a finger lightly over the edge of Obi-Wan’s beard. “I rather like that,” he said, or tried to say, then wondered why his imaginary companion was staring at him like an eopie in speeder lights.

Even stranger: Obi-Wan actually blushed, but gently grasped Qui-Gon’s hand and tucked it back into his wrappings. “Get some rest, Master,” he said, and his voice sounded almost as rough as Qui-Gon’s own, which was puzzling. But sleep was tugging at him, and Qui-Gon was too tired to hold on to any complicated sort of thoughts.

The blush was a good look on Obi-Wan, anyway.  


* * *

  
The fever must have faded a bit by the time Qui-Gon woke again. The ache in his joints and the pounding in his temples had eased, thank the Force.

The wind was still howling, driving rain outside; the fireplace crackled in merry counterpoint. Qui-Gon found himself securely wrapped—surprising, given his condition earlier. He disentangled himself with effort, intent on carefully picking his way across to the fresher.

Strangely, his Obi-Wan–hallucination was still there, curled up by the fire. At first Qui-Gon thought it a heap of Jedi-cloak brown, but after washing his face and re-emerging from the fresher a bit less bleary-eyed, he noticed the unmistakable flash of copper. Qui-Gon reassessed his condition; he felt far too light, as though he might be easily knocked over by a feather. His knees felt creaky and just barely up to the job of keeping him standing upright.

All right, so maybe it was too soon for a fever dream to dissipate. Qui-Gon sighed, and gingerly sank back into his nest. Missions usually went better with two, he thought, and his imagination was doing its best to console him. Why, he thought, rapidly sinking back into an exhausted doze, the hell not.  


* * *

  
Time wasn’t Qui-Gon’s most solid sense, not since the crash. By his estimate, he’d slept a few hours, but he didn’t have a chrono to check against. Obi-Wan was at his side again, waiting for him with another cup of tea and a mug of stew. Qui-Gon gratefully drank both down, wondering if maybe he’d actually made the stew for himself at some point and forgotten. Maybe he’d even found an acceptable substitute for tea.

As he settled, Qui-Gon curled in close to Obi-Wan, not caring if it looked pathetic. Obi-Wan radiated familiar warmth, and a moment later Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan’s fingers in his hair— _gods,_ if only he could have purred…

“Why are you here?” Qui-Gon asked, curious about this vision of his. How deep did this hallucination go? “You should be out and about the galaxy, making a name for yourself.”

Obi-Wan gave him an odd smile. “You have no idea how long you’ve been out here, do you?”

A few days, Qui-Gon had thought. He’d lost track—with the rain falling thick and the forest cover above him, he honestly hadn’t been able to tell the difference between day and night.

Obi-Wan shook his head. “The Primary contacted the Council when your pilot didn’t report in. That was a little more than a ten ago. They’ve been worried about the rebels shooting down incoming diplomatic vessels. Quite annoying, actually. I was in the next system over, had to switch my transport for an in-bound freighter.”

“Mm. Council’s orders,” Qui-Gon muttered. Impossible that he should be so lucky.

“You got pretty close to the spaceport, you know,” Obi-Wan said. “Didn’t take long to find you.”

Definitely not that lucky.

“So…” Qui-Gon furrowed his brow. “Instead of going back to Coruscant, you—took a freighter?”

“A cramped freighter,” Obi-Wan confirmed. “Full of eopies and banthas, you know.”

“Into contested territory.”

“Right.”

“Trekked through pouring rain?”

“Don’t forget the wind,” Obi-Wan offered helpfully. “And the cold.”

Qui-Gon tried to acknowledge that with a soft grumble, but it devolved into a coughing fit. It sounded awful—concerning, even, if he had to be completely honest with himself. “All this, for your sorry old Master,” he choked out, finally.

“You’re not old,” Obi-Wan scolded, with a gentle tug on his hair.

Qui-Gon winced—even his scalp ached. “Certainly feel it.”

The hand in his hair let go, switching to apologetic—and utterly hypnotic—petting.

“I saw the wreckage, flying in,” Obi-Wan told him after a moment, voice hushed and strained. “You had me worried for a few days, there.”

Obi-Wan, worried about him. Qui-Gon felt an unaccountable pinch in his chest at the thought—that he should be distracting his former Padawan from his duty with a simple little—

“Qui-Gon Jinn, I swear to all the gods of this miserable, sopping planet, if you call this a ‘little fever’ while rambling on about hallucinations, so help me, I _will_ set Vokara on you the moment we are back in-Temple, recovered or not.”

Qui-Gon would never admit to either the quick cringe or the actual, honest-to-Force whimper that escaped him in that instant. Luckily, by the fond-frustrated noise overhead, it seemed Obi-Wan would take pity on him after all.

As long as he didn’t stop petting his miserable patient. Qui-Gon hummed happily, sinking into the pleasure of feeling those clever fingers running through his hair, gently teasing apart the strands. “What did I ever do to deserve you,” he murmured.

Now the hands fell still. Qui-Gon frowned, and dared to glance up. Obi-Wan helped, one hand moving to support the back of his head. The other came to rest on Qui-Gon’s cheek in an oddly and not-unpleasantly intimate gesture.

Obi-Wan appeared to be peering down at him with some concern, which Qui-Gon couldn’t presently fathom.

“I love you,” Obi-Wan said softly. “I hope you know that.”

Qui-Gon huffed. Of course he knew that. He knew it in the sort of way he knew that Padawans loved their Masters; or that Obi-Wan, with such warm depths in his heart, would always find room in it for him. Qui-Gon certainly didn’t deserve it, but then that wasn’t really what mattered to Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan frowned at him. Almost like he knew what Qui-Gon was thinking. Well, damn his Padawan for being so perceptive, he probably _did_ know.

“It’s no great mystery, Master Jinn, once you realise you’ve been thinking out loud all this time,” Obi-Wan said with a quiet sniff.

Qui-Gon froze, and regretted it, every aching muscle protesting the sudden tension. “I have?” he asked carefully.

“And it’s all complete nonsense, too,” Obi-Wan sniffed again, “but I suppose you deserve some latitude for the fever. Also, you and this particular med never got along, but I’m afraid it’s all I had.”

Whatever else Qui-Gon might have thought or said to that, the hands started petting him again, and he decided that he might as well shut up and take the excuse given to him, and not say another word on the matter.

Only as that slow, warm, repetitive touch lulled him to sleep, Qui-Gon thought he heard Obi-Wan say, “I’ll tell you when you’re better. If you remember any of this, that is.”  


* * *

  
Qui-Gon would be hard-pressed to call his misadventure a ‘little fever’ by the time Obi-Wan got him home, especially given that he didn’t remember most of it. According to Obi-Wan, a team had been smuggled into the capital to relieve them, about two days after Obi-Wan’s arrival. Off the hook as far as the mission was concerned, and with Qui-Gon marginally better, Obi-Wan managed to smuggle the both of them out—though, once again, only by cramped, stinking freighter—and back to Coruscant. Qui-Gon had slept most of the flight back, which, from what Obi-Wan had said of it, was likely a small mercy.

Vokara didn’t yell at him. Maybe that was cause for some concern, or another indication of the seriousness of his condition. Qui-Gon, however, chose to view it in a more positive light, and added another tally to the Small Mercies category.

Even so, Vokara only kept him for a day. Qui-Gon was beginning to get suspicious of his lucky streak when Obi-Wan appeared and gallantly offered to escort the tired, aching Jedi Master to his quarters. That was, finally, just too much.

“I don’t want to put you out,” Qui-Gon said, or tried to, before the steely look in Obi-Wan’s eyes absolutely wrecked what conviction he might have tried to put in the words.

“How long has it been since you’ve last seen your quarters, Qui-Gon?” Obi-Wan asked him, his voice far lighter than the look on his face. “Almost a year, now, isn’t it? I can’t let you go alone, you’ll get lost,” he said, and Qui-Gon couldn’t help smiling just a little bit in the face of that gentle teasing.

“Imp,” he grumbled, and gave in without much of a fight.

It was worth it, when Obi-Wan looped his arm through Qui-Gon’s and subtly steered him out of the Halls of Healing, then all the way to the lifts, and then halfway across the Temple to his quarters. The whole way, Qui-Gon was hyper-aware of the warmth of Obi-Wan’s shoulder, of the solid feel of his arm. The way Obi-Wan let Qui-Gon step into and out of a turbo lift ahead of him, Qui-Gon imagined feeling the light brush of Obi-Wan’s fingertips at the small of his back.

Qui-Gon still wasn’t sure how much of the last two weeks he’d outright hallucinated. A slightly irritated message from the Council confirmed that he’d crashed a ship, at least. The fact that Obi-Wan had been with him for the entire flight back to Coruscant seemed to confirm that Obi-Wan had been the one to find him. The whole cabin-in-the-woods business, though, that was still questionable—a fever-induced fantasy of Obi-Wan taking care of him, possibly.

Maybe even likely, Qui-Gon thought, as Obi-Wan steered him down familiar halls. Tahl would be telling him it was his own fault, he knew: he was lonely, horribly so. He hadn’t been back in the Temple in far too long. All in a good cause: he’d thought that an endless run of missions could help him drone out the empty space in his life that Obi-Wan used to fill before he was Knighted. Qui-Gon should have been spending at least some of his time with friends—people who knew him well enough and could distract him far better.

The realisation was faintly embarrassing; he’d been down this road before, hadn’t he? He hadn’t _lost_ Obi-Wan, not exactly—and not even remotely like he’d lost Xani. But, Qui-Gon realised, a powerful wave of chagrin nearly bowling him over, he _had_ been grieving. _Nothing like a fantasy of your former Padawan telling you he loved you to keep you warm at night,_ Qui-Gon thought, with biting sarcasm. Truth be told, he was feeling rather guilty, too, for fantasising about Obi-Wan—in _any_ way—when standing _right next to him._

“Here you are,” Obi-Wan said quietly, and palmed the door control. He froze, surprised, when the door opened for him. “Huh. You never reprogrammed the lock?”

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow at him. “And risk you breaking the door down when you couldn’t find your new assigned quarters?”

Obi-Wan grinned brightly at him. “I see you’re feeling better,” he said, and motioned Qui-Gon ahead of him.

“For the moment,” Qui-Gon replied, doing his utmost to play up a morbid tone. It had occurred to him just then that he really didn’t want Obi-Wan to leave. What harm was there in indulging a little, anyway, and savouring Obi-Wan’s company while he could have it?

Obi-Wan shot him a sideways glance and shook his head. “You make an excellent point, Master Jinn. I suppose I’d better stay and keep an eye on you.”

“Keep me out of trouble?”

“What are friends for,” Obi-Wan agreed, grinning. “Master Che might even thank me.”

“Hope you’re not expecting me to go easy on you, then,” Qui-Gon said.

“Oh, I do love a challenge.”

Qui-Gon turned around to the sight of Obi-Wan smirking at him, and instantly felt his brain shut down. There was no way he was going to make it through this. It had been madness, maybe even hubris, to think otherwise.

Obi-Wan’s smile dimmed fractionally, but he didn’t give Qui-Gon any time to reconsider, or escape. “Tea?”

Qui-Gon cleared his throat awkwardly, then winced at the still-raw feeling of it. “Good idea. There’s honey—”

“Just sit down, I’ll find it,” Obi-Wan replied, one foot already in the kitchen.

Qui-Gon sighed, and let himself collapse onto his couch.

The time it took to brew the tea was barely long enough for Qui-Gon to regain his composure. He was exhausted, and the couch, usually comfortable and familiar, now felt very much in the way. As it was, Qui-Gon would happily melt right through the cushions if he could.

“Falling asleep on me?”

Qui-Gon shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure I could. Just can’t move.”

He heard Obi-Wan set the tea tray down on the table, then felt his weight settle beside him. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we.”

Obi-Wan’s voice was much closer than Qui-Gon had expected. “Like what?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Come here.”

Qui-Gon let himself be guided by the touch of warm hands on his shoulders, and once again found himself lying with his head in his former Padawan’s lap. That was something of a surprise, but a pleasant one. He didn’t dare open his eyes, at first. But then he didn’t want to, not when Obi-Wan sank those gentle, talented fingers into his hair again. Instead, Qui-Gon sighed, and raised his feet up to the opposite arm of the couch.

“Better?”

Qui-Gon could hear the smile in Obi-Wan’s voice, and couldn’t help one of his own. “If only you could do that forever, I’d never move.”

“But then the tea would get cold,” Obi-Wan teased him.

Qui-Gon hummed quietly, amused. “Worth it.”

“Blasphemy,” Obi-Wan hissed in mock horror, but he was laughing, and his fingers didn’t stop their gentle movement through Qui-Gon’s hair.

In mere moments, Qui-Gon felt the dull ache in his temples ease to a background noise, and the heavy feeling of all his muscles began to feel less and less less like something that would keep him awake and more like something sleep might fix. He was breathing normally again—deep, long breaths that left him feeling freer, his body relaxing at long last. Not unlike melting into Obi-Wan’s hands, Qui-Gon thought, and smiled.

Something niggled at the back of his mind, though, something he’d half-dreamed or half-forgotten…

“What was it you were going to tell me, before?” Qui-Gon murmured.

“Hm?”

“You said you were going to tell me something, if I remembered.” Qui-Gon frowned faintly, feeling Obi-Wan’s fingers slow down on their soothing, repetitive journey. “Did I dream that up?”

Despite himself, despite his better judgement, Qui-Gon found himself fighting a rising wave of disappointment at the long silence, the stillness of the man above him.

“I—you remembered that?”

Qui-Gon managed to open his eyes. Above him, Obi-Wan’s face seemed flushed, and the faint hum of Obi-Wan’s embarrassment reached his senses. Qui-Gon’s breath caught, and something that felt very much like an iron fist squeezed around his heart. If Obi-Wan didn’t want this, if he didn’t want to say anything…

“If, right this moment, you were to tell me that it was all a fever dream, I’d probably believe you,” Qui-Gon offered softly.

But Obi-Wan was shaking his head. “No, see, that would be taking advantage, I couldn’t do that.”

Qui-Gon barked out a hoarse, surprised laugh. “Taking advantage?”

“Of your fever and an unfortunate reaction to the drugs,” Obi-Wan nodded, mock-solemn. “I’d never forgive myself.” Then he deflated visibly. “And I don’t want to lie to you.”

Qui-Gon reached up, found one of the hands resting next to his head and pulled it to his shoulder in a gentle hold. He hoped the gesture was reassuring, but Obi-Wan’s hand was still tense in his grasp. After a moment’s consideration, Qui-Gon closed his eyes and squeezed Obi-Wan’s curled fingers, as though he might pull Obi-Wan from his anxieties that way. He let his eyes fall closed again, as if to let Obi-Wan hide from him, if he wanted to.

Above him, Obi-Wan exhaled sharply. “Tell me about your fever dream, Qui? What do you remember?”

Qui-Gon smiled. “I seem to remember a lovely vision of my former Padawan, my Knight, taking care of his miserable old Master. He told me the most unbelievable story of being sent by the Council to find me, and it involved a planetary Primary getting worried about a missing Jedi, something about eopies and banthas, and a story about trekking through the woods for days.”

Obi-Wan laughed. “Why unbelievable?”

“Well I couldn’t possibly be so fortunate,” Qui-Got said, as though it was the most obvious truth in the galaxy.

“Nonsense,” Obi-Wan told him matter-of-factly. “Who keeps telling me: ‘there is no luck, there is only the Force’?”

“Your old fool of a Master, probably,” Qui-Gon muttered, and thereby earned himself a quick tug to the hair. He didn’t quite manage to hold back a wince. When the hand returned, much more gentle, he realised that was familiar, too. “Let me guess: you’re going to tell me I’m not old?”

“Not a fool, either.”

“Ah. Well, the dream-you was far more reasonable, and limited his remarks to the matter of my age.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Noted.”

“He also said…” Qui-Gon swallowed, suddenly nervous. “He also said he loved me.”

“I do.” Obi-Wan confirmed it easily, like it was another one of those universal truths, unchanging as the galaxy’s rotation.

Qui-Gon nodded once. “I know.”

Above him, Obi-Wan sighed softly and nudged Qui-Gon back up. Qui-Gon felt bereft of that warmth, even as Obi-Wan snagged a cushion from the armchair and eased him down onto it, kneeling beside the couch. Qui-Gon opened his eyes, and found himself staring right into Obi-Wan’s green ones, full of affection and no little exasperation.

“You impossible thing,” Obi-Wan muttered, and leaned in to kiss him.

For just a moment, Qui-Gon’s mind screeched to a complete halt. He held himself still like that, eyes wide, one arm half-raised, indecisively hovering in midair while his brain failed to _tell_ it to sink his fingers into that delightful long red-gold hair.

When Obi-Wan let him go, Qui-Gon’s brain was still unhelpfully broken. At least until he saw doubt clouding his copper Knight’s expression.

“I—”

Qui-Gon cleared his throat, but his voice still came out in a whisper. “What was that you said, about your former Master _not_ being a complete fool?”

Slowly, slowly he took down the shields on his end of their bond, and watched the expression on Obi-Wan’s face turn to radiant, incandescent joy.

“You’re quite right,” Obi-Wan agreed, his joy quickly morphing into that impish grin Qui-Gon knew and loved so much. “As it turns out, it was entirely unreasonable of me to say you weren’t a fool.”

“Well, not _entirely,_ I hope,” Qui-Gon groused, and finally slid his fingers into the smooth silk of Obi-Wan’s hair to urge him close.

“No,” Obi-Wan agreed, his lips brushing Qui-Gon’s as he spoke, “not entirely.”

This time, when Obi-Wan kissed him, Qui-Gon capitulated easily, and blithely told his brain to take the day.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: 1 - “I love you. I hope you know that.” & 5 - “Are you warm enough?” 
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to Meggory for giving it a once-over <3


End file.
